


Poached

by d_dandelions



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (Not between Geralt and Jaskier), Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Desperation, Egg Laying, Eggpreg, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Other, Oviposition, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sort Of, Sounding, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Watersports, it's more like fuck or experience horrible kidney stones, tentacle sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26599873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_dandelions/pseuds/d_dandelions
Summary: Geralt finds himself in an unexpected predicament after a hunt. Jaskier’s more than happy to help him out of it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Monster(s)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 360





	Poached

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please check the tags! There’s a Lot going on in this one that’s not to everyone’s taste, take care of yourself and give it a miss if any of it looks upsetting to you (I promise I’ll be back to your regularly scheduled fluffy piss porn soon XD) 
> 
> For [this prompt](https://diuretic-dandelions.tumblr.com/post/629979187376209921/how-about-geralt-getting-overpowered-and-stuffed) on tumblr. It took a while, thank you for being so patient! Also big thanks to the people on discord who were lovely and supportive and helped me out with eggspert advice and eggcellent suggestions (including for where the eggs should end up ¬‿¬) during the ~~many, many, MANY~~ times I floundered on this, you guys are the best <3

The contract had been suspicious from the start. 

First there’d been the wording of the notice, requesting that someone ‘take care’ of the creature in the woods, conspicuously avoiding the word ‘kill’ and noticeably lacking any information about the creature itself. But Geralt needed the coin and was hardly going to waste time quibbling over a semi-literate farmer’s wording choices. Far more suspect had been the lack of eye contact when he asked for more information, the utter refusal to credit the creature with deed or appearance. Still, it wasn’t the first time Geralt had gone into a fight lacking information and eye-witness accounts. He’d assumed the creature had simply killed anyone who’d ever laid eyes on it and the villagers had been rendered too terrified to discuss the issue further. He’d been just as confident it would be no match for a witcher. 

As soon as he steps into the clearing where the notice had claimed he’d find the creature he realises accepting this contract was a mistake. 

It’s damp. Far, far damper than it should be, given the dryness of the surrounding woods and lack of rain during the summer season. Geralt’s boots sink into the mud as he walks and each step becomes a disturbingly conscious effort. There’s a distinct perimeter around the edge of the clearing where the plant life abruptly ends and Geralt doubts a single animal in the forest would set foot past it. There’s not a single suggestion of life, past or present. The woods are far from the sea but the air stinks of briny water and the ground under his feet feels boggy and hollow, as if it shouldn’t be supporting his weight at all. The air crackles with remnants of magic so ancient and strong that the hair on Geralt’s arms lifts and an unpleasant metallic taste fills his mouth. 

Whatever’s made its home here is old, powerful and unlike anything Geralt’s ever faced before. 

If he had the choice he’d rather not face it _now_ but he’s not naïve enough to believe his intrusion has gone unnoticed. A thick, dark tentacle snaking up through the mud confirms his suspicions. 

The first tentacle he cuts down without incident. The second too. When three and four emerge on opposite sides of him it takes a moment longer but he eventually manages to slice through them both with one well-timed swivel of his sword. 

When five comes from underneath him, wrapping itself around his boot, the boggy ground creates an obstacle. When six and seven wrap themselves around his legs and eight, nine and ten lift him off the ground, when eleven wraps around his hand and _squeezes_ until his sword falls uselessly to the ground and he realises that it’s not slowing down no matter how much damage he does, he starts to worry.

He stops keeping count after that. 

The creature may have disarmed him but he’s not helpless. He twists his wrist against its hold, so his hand is flat against the tendril and casts Igni. The creature lets out a pained yowl from _somewhere_ that reverberates painfully through Geralt’s body and the damaged tendril loosens and pulls away. Geralt feels a faint spark of hope. This creature _can_ feel pain, he can hurt it and now he has a hand free again…

And then two more tendrils erupt from the muddy ground in a spray of briny water, twining themselves thoroughly around Geralt’s arm before he has a chance to cast another sign. He writhes and struggles in their grip to no avail. 

With a strange, cold numbness he realises he’s not going to get another chance. 

Witchers don’t die in their beds, Geralt’s lived with the knowledge for nearly a century now but he’d hoped at least to die upright, sword in hand and giving as good as he got. Not stretched out and helpless at the mercy of a monster he couldn’t even name. And not, he thinks, with his bard camped alone only a few hundred yards away. His bard who will surely come looking for him if he’s not back by morning and will likely end up at the mercy of this creature himself. 

The hot panic he feels at the thought of his mangled corpse being the last thing Jaskier sees before he dies lends his struggling a new intensity but he still can’t move an inch against the creature’s tight grip. The tentacles hold him in place with dispassionate efficiency and part of Geralt almost wishes they were crueller about it. At least that way he’d feel his resistance was inspiring a genuine response, he could take some satisfaction in knowing he’d angered the monster. 

He hasn’t. He was never a real threat to it at all. 

Now it has him in place the creature seems disinterested in killing him. It would take only a harsh wrench or a consistent, squeezing pressure from the appendage wrapped around his neck to finish him off but it does neither. Geralt wonders why. It beat him, it _won_. What else could it possibly want? 

He stops struggling and draws in a deep breath, feeling the tentacles loosen until they’re holding him securely in place without hurting him. More tentacles emerge slowly from the mud, touching him hesitantly, almost curiously, and his raw panic begins to give way to a weightless, peaceful calmness. A particularly bold tendril traces the side of his face in an oddly tender motion that reminds him, for a brief, confusing moment, of Jaskier and he closes his eyes, shifting slightly into the touch. His medallion hums insistently against his chest. 

It’s magic, of course it is from a recondite, pre-Conjunction creature like this, but Geralt can’t quite remember why that should bother him. 

The tentacles are growing braver now, one stroking his inner thigh while another rips at his shirt until it falls from his body in tatters. It trails a slow line from Geralt’s collar bone down to his hip and slips under his waistband, brushing against his soft cock. His hips jolt involuntarily. 

Oh.

So _that’s_ what it wants.

It goes some way towards explaining the less than forthcoming answers he’d got from the villagers when he’d asked about the contract, at least. Monsters that wanted to fuck always raised more of a conflicted response than monsters that only wanted to kill. 

The tentacle caressing his face prods playfully between his lips, slipping gently into his mouth when his jaw slackens in response. It’s coarser than human skin but not unpleasantly so and the tip is leaking a thick, slimy substance that Geralt feels a sudden, inexplicable urge to lick. Without consciously deciding to he gives in to the impulse and swallows the sharp-tasting liquid.

Pure, desperate heat floods his body.

Suddenly the restrictive hold of the creature isn’t _enough_ , he wants it touching him more, spreading him open, fucking him, filling him. He sucks desperately at the tentacle in his mouth, trying to take it as far down his throat as he can, and ruts frantically into the air, wishing hopelessly that the tendril that had been there would come back and make good on its suggestive touches. He feels one wrap itself around his hips, holding him still as another teases his straining cock through his leathers and he chokes a helpless moan around the tentacle in his mouth. 

He’s bound up too tightly to move his head properly and so he feels, rather than sees, the appendage that tears open the fastenings of his trousers as if they were made of paper and wraps around his cock. He’s been craving the friction so desperately that he comes almost instantly but the tentacle wastes no time in coaxing him back to hardness, slicking his cock with a mixture of slime and his own spend. It doesn’t take long until he’s on the edge again, the hot eagerness still humming under his skin and making him whine and twitch at every one of the tentacles’ touches, and he’s aware, faintly that it’s the creature’s influence keeping him so desperate when he’s come once already. He doesn’t care. The tentacle trails lazily up and down his cock one last time before its touch slows to a stop. He howls out loud as the tentacle loosens around his shaft until it’s holding him without any of the pressure he wants so badly. When he feels the slick, probing touch of a new tendril at the head of his cock he nearly sobs in relief. 

This one is thinner than the last and he manages to crane his neck enough to see it teasing at his slit before it starts to push _inside him_. Something in Geralt tenses and protests at the unfamiliar, burning presence but it’s overwhelmed by the sheer pleasure he feels at being _filled_. Suddenly he’s even more aware of the tentacle wrapped around his shaft, the light, teasing, _intoxicating_ pressure it’s providing. The tendril inside him eases its way up his urethra, torturously slowly, and it’s only the tentacles still wrapped around his hips that prevents him from pushing up into it, forcing it deeper still. 

“Please,” he begs, out loud, to a creature that could never be swayed by his desires, “ _please_.” 

The tentacle twitches inside of him and he shudders and moans at the strange pleasure that spreads through him at the feeling. Satisfied, finally, the tentacle settles and stills inside of his cock. It’s an odd, foreign feeling when it swells minutely and Geralt feels something move _through_ it until it’s resting inside of _him_. 

An _egg_. He doesn’t know how he knows, what animal instinct in the back of his brain announces the thought with such conviction, but he knows it all the same. 

The tendril inside his cock swells again, pumping eggs inside of him faster and faster, and Geralt feels an unnatural yet unnervingly familiar heavy fullness growing in his midsection. He suddenly desperately, frantically, _urgently_ wants to empty his bladder. It’s impossible with the creature still inside him and he fidgets as best he can in a futile attempt to lessen his discomfort. The tentacle wrapped around his hips tightens in admonishment and Geralt moans at the increased pressure on his overfull bladder. The creature’s still pumping him full of its eggs and a brief spark of concern undercuts Geralt’s lust that they might not all _fit_. He already feels full to the brim and the creature is relentless, stuffing him fuller and fuller until he’s fit to burst. 

It relents, finally, when Geralt’s bladder feels crammed to the brim with eggs and not a second before. It eases itself out of his cock slowly, gently and Geralt aches at the loss. For a brief moment he hopes the creature might make him come again before it lets him go but the tentacles release his aching cock and pull away without a hint of ceremony. 

Their job apparently done more and more of the tentacles loosen their hold on him and fall away, the memory of their touches lingering as they bury back into the muddy ground. The clearing looks much the same as it had before the fight, barring the tentacles Geralt had cut from the creature still lying in the mud, but Geralt somehow knows that it’s not coming back. The prickling awareness of a magical presence has vanished, along with the static that had filled the air. He’s truly alone now.

Alone and still so achingly _full_. 

The urgent lust that the creature had induced in him has faded somewhat but there’s a foreign, nagging urge resting darkly in the back of his mind, a certainty rooted firmly in biology that he needs to fuck, he needs to _breed_ , to get his relief. His thoughts turn to Jaskier, memories of their lazy fuck only a few hours ago clouding his mind. How much better would it have felt if Geralt was filling him up with his eggs, and they truly are _his_ eggs now, not the creature’s, and staking a claim on him that no one else could hope to match? 

Fuck. He can’t. Jaskier would probably be horrified he’d ever even thought of it at all. Geralt just has to empty his bladder, get rid of these eggs and then his thoughts will be his own again.

He’s so uncomfortably full that standing up again is a struggle. Irrationally he worries he might start leaking as he straightens and he clasps a hand between his legs, making his way to the edge of the clearing anxious and strained. He rests an arm against a tree and takes his cock in hand, hoping that the eggs will come out quickly and easily so he can finally be free of this overwhelming pressure and the dark urges that come with it. 

Of course it’s not so simple. He strains to relieve himself until it hurts, sweat beading on his brow and a dull ache spreading through the back of his hips. He wobbles where he stands when he lowers his arm from the tree to rest over his aching bladder. The eggs pulsate at his touch, already far larger than they had been when they were laid in him.

Far too large to come out comfortably. 

His stomach _aches_ with fullness and he presses his hand into it, gently, hoping the extra pressure will force the eggs out. Instead it sends a frantic pulse of helpless urgency through his body that leaves him shifting his weight from foot to foot and fighting the urge to fuck vigorously into his own hand when an undeniable urge to get the eggs _inside_ of someone hits him again, with an intensity he hadn’t expected. 

_Jaskier likes to be fucked hard and filled up_. The thought comes to him again, unbidden, and he digs his hand into his bladder fiercely in an attempt to banish it. He massages his swollen abdomen, slowly and gently, trying to urge at least some of the eggs out. Sharp pain spreads across his back and below his ribs as he feels a strange, foreign mass moving slowly to the tip of his cock. He grits his teeth against the pain and pushes harder until, finally, a clear, slimy lump falls to the ground at his feet. 

Just one. 

The remaining eggs pulsate with new intensity under his hand. How many are there inside of him still? Dozens? Hundreds? He’s not sure he can stand doing this again, as many times as it would take to remove them all. A low, agonised groan forces its way from his throat as he realises he might not have a choice. 

And that’s how Jaskier finds him when he stumbles into the clearing, Geralt’s potion satchel flung haphazardly over his shoulder. He drops it to the muddy ground without looking as soon as he hears Geralt’s pained groans. 

“Geralt? Are you alright?” Past the desperate ache in his lower body Geralt can hear the concern in Jaskier’s voice. He smells familiar, he smells faintly of _Geralt_ , as he generally seems to these days and if he comes any closer Geralt’s truly not sure he’ll be able to resist fucking him. He sees Jaskier’s eyes widen as he takes in the tattered remnants of Geralt’s clothes, his body streaked with mud and slime, the sheen of sweat on his face and, finally, the soft egg lying in front of him. 

“What’s happening, what did it do to you?” Jaskier’s voice is soft and worried and Geralt can’t stand it. With his typical lack of forethought Jaskier bends down and picks the egg up, realisation dawning on his face as he registers the shape and texture. 

“Geralt….” Jaskier meets his eyes, still rubbing the viscous lump slowly between his fingers, “this is an _egg_.” 

He says ‘egg’ in the same way he would say ‘rough fuck’ or ‘multiple orgasms’, like it’s something he’d be willing to beg for. Geralt can already see his dick twitching in his pants, he can smell the familiar scent of Jaskier’s arousal in the air. Is the creature’s magic affecting him too, Geralt wonders, or is this just another of Jaskier’s many sexual proclivities?

Geralt strongly suspects it’s the latter.

“This isn’t the only one, is it?”

Geralt shakes his head. 

“How many-“

“A lot.” Geralt couldn’t begin to guess at how many eggs he has stuck in his swollen, overfull bladder, he just knows it’s far more than he can comfortably fit and he desperately needs to get them _out_. He notices that he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot again, like a child in need of the privy and forces himself to stand still. Harder to stop is the lingering certainty that there’s only one way he’ll get these eggs out properly. 

No matter how good Jaskier smells, no matter what feelings they might share for each other, no matter how aroused Jaskier might be by this situation Geralt can’t ask that of him. 

“Okay….okay…” Jaskier’s plainly trying to ignore his erection and Geralt returns the favour, “so you’re full of these…eggs,” his voice breaks on the word and he clears his throat, “we could….maybe we could wash them out?” 

The thought of adding anything else to his throbbing bladder makes Geralt want to kill something but if it works….. he nods hesitantly and Jaskier drops to his knees to rummage through the potion satchel. 

“There’s a tool for this….” Jaskier murmurs distractedly, checking and rejecting various bottles with practised efficiency, “but I don’t carry one with me. Maybe I’ll have to start if you’re going to insist on getting frisky with your contracts… aha!” He holds up the small jar in triumph. “White Honey! To, er, detoxify. It should have no problem ridding you of your, um…. extra additions. You see, I _have_ been paying attention!” 

It’s an oversimplification of White Honey’s uses but Geralt can’t deny he _does_ often find himself needing to empty his bladder as quickly as he can after he’s taken it. It’s not _impossible_ that it would manage to flush out the eggs. Without giving himself a chance to reconsider he swallows the potion. 

It takes less than a minute for him to regret it fiercely. His already overstuffed bladder feels ready to explode, throbbing and painful. He hunches over and clenches a hand between his legs, past the point of caring how weak and childish it looks.

Jaskier clears his throat uncomfortably and steps closer to Geralt, rubbing soothing circles into his aching stomach. He still smells of reluctant desire under his worry and Geralt clenches his hand against his thigh hard enough to bruise to keep from rutting against him. 

“Okay, not my most successful plan. But it’s going to be alright, we’ll think of… something…..” he swallows, anxiously. 

Geralt closes his eyes and slows his breathing, trying desperately to think past the clawing _need_ in his midsection. But with Jaskier so close and smelling so strongly of want and with the unrelenting urgency, the constant, aching pressure of being so _full_ it’s getting harder for Geralt to keep himself from saying something absurd and unforgivable like….

“I want to fuck them into you.”

Fuck.

Jaskier whimpers and his hips twitch jerkily.

“Oh gods yes,” he breathes, “oh fuck, _please_ Geralt.” 

He can rarely resist Jaskier’s begging at the best of times and now, with this overwhelming pressure, the complete, confusing conviction that this is what he _has_ to do, it’s utterly impossible. He regrets, bitterly, that he doesn’t carry any oil in his potion satchel. Nothing in there would be safe to use on Jaskier and he doesn’t want to risk hurting him in their shared eagerness. In a sudden, filthy flash of inspiration his gaze turns to the tentacles lying in the mud, still covered in slime. 

The slime that had left him rutting against empty air in desperation. 

Jaskier whimpers his disapproval when Geralt moves away and Geralt can feel his impatient eyes on him as he retrieves a disembodied tentacle with awkward, hurried movements. He dangles the dripping tentacle in front of Jaskier like a question and the bard gives his answer by coyly poking out his tongue to catch a stray drop. His eyes widen when he tastes it and he leans forward eagerly, licking a long, slow line from the leaking tip of the tentacle to Geralt’s hand. He licks his lips when he’s done and looks at Geralt with flushed cheeks and blown pupils. Geralt barely has a moment to appreciate Jaskier’s increased heart rate and the intense, spicy scent of his lust before he has an armful of eager bard, kissing him hungrily and grinding desperately against Geralt’s growing hardness. His skin is feverishly hot and he’s so undeniably _frantic_ for it that it takes all of Geralt’s considerable self-control to keep from making him come like this. But he can’t ignore the pressure in his stomach, he knows he needs to get inside of Jaskier and he needs to do it quickly. He pushes Jaskier lightly in encouragement and feels a new flare of heat in his gut when the bard drops to his hands and knees immediately, indifferent to the mud staining his expensive outfit. Geralt resists the urge to push him further into the muddy ground until he’s completely covered in it and, instead, rids him of his trousers in one, sharp movement that probably does irreparable damage to the fastenings. Jaskier yelps in delight. 

Geralt runs his hand over the length of the tentacle, soaking his fingers in its thick slime and enjoying the way just touching it intensifies his arousal all the more, before casting it carelessly to one side and dropping to his knees behind Jaskier. He teases a slick finger over Jaskier’s hole and feels the bard shudder and push back into the touch. He’s struck, suddenly, with the knowledge that he’s about to mount Jaskier in the middle of the woods, _breed_ him like they’re wild animals, and it sends a shock of frantic lust through him. He slides two fingers into Jaskier, rougher than he might normally, and growls, low in his throat. Jaskier matches him with a series of frantic, incoherent pleas that are lost to a long moan when Geralt adds a third finger. It would be too much too fast under any other circumstances, but the tentacle’s residue has left Jaskier loose, pliant and clearly as desperate to be filled as Geralt is to fill him. He looks back at Geralt, wild-eyed and flushed.

“ _Fuck me_ , witcher,” he chokes out, his voice rough and needy, “you promised to _fuck them into me_.” He punctuates his command with a frantic thrust backwards, driving Geralt’s fingers further into him, and the witcher can’t think of a single reason to delay. He slicks his cock with the last of the tentacle’s slime and _finally_ lets himself push into Jaskier’s tight heat. 

_Yes_. 

_This_ is what he’s supposed to do. He doesn’t need any more encouragement than Jaskier, eager and begging him, but he gets it anyway in the intense rush of _satisfaction_ he feels, soothing the insistent urge to breed that hadn’t left him since the eggs filled his bladder. He’s shaken from his relief when Jaskier tilts his hips to force Geralt in deeper and a new rush of sheer urgency clouds his mind. He fucks into Jaskier, rough and frantic, and lets the bard’s desperate moans urge him on. Jaskier howls for him to move faster, to _fuck him harder_ and Geralt grips his hips hard enough to bruise and bites into his shoulder as he does. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice breaks as he cries out, “ _please_ don’t stop!”

There’s no danger of that. For the first time since the creature took hold of him Geralt feels _satisfied_. The full, aching pressure in his bladder lends new urgency to his thrusts and he can _feel_ how much Jaskier is enjoying it, clenching and shuddering around him. The familiar curling heat in his gut that precedes his orgasm is complemented by the same strange sensation he’d felt before, this time devoid of pain, of something beginning to move _through_ him. 

It all hits him at once. 

He comes and the eggs leave him in a rush, drawing out the pleasure of coming into the pleasure of _relief_ and he’s overwhelmed by how incomparably _good_ it feels. His hips jerk involuntarily as he spills more and more eggs into Jaskier, groaning in sheer ecstasy as he does, and he’s dimly aware of Jaskier’s body tightening and shuddering around him as the bard comes, cock untouched, just from the thrill of being _filled_ by Geralt. Fuck. 

He still feels light and dizzy with relief when he stops fucking the eggs into Jaskier an indeterminate amount of time later. He pulls out of Jaskier, resting a hand briefly and apologetically over his reddening hips, and lets himself collapse backwards into the mud with a moan of pure relief. Jaskier echoes it and settles himself next to Geralt with a happy sigh. Uncharacteristically he doesn’t say a word, not to complain about all the mud or his unquestionably ruined outfit, not to fret about how they’re supposed to go back to town in _this_ state, not even to worry about the fact that Geralt’s just _filled him with eggs_. He simply runs his hand over Geralt’s blessedly empty bladder and hums to himself in quiet satisfaction. 

Geralt doesn’t push him. The creature is gone, the ache in his midsection is dealt with and he has Jaskier, safe, satisfied and warm against his body. 

It’s enough.


End file.
